


Thought That I'd Feel Better

by ebullience24



Series: Now I've Got A Bellyache [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam Young Still Has Powers (Good Omens), Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has An Eating Disorder, Crowley Has Scales (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Crowley has claws, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), wait that's a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23893594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebullience24/pseuds/ebullience24
Summary: Following Crowley's emotional breakdown with Aziraphale, the two of them are in Tadfield and are joined by the entire airfield gang. Crowley tries to put on a brave face for the kids but, in the end, it all goes to pot.Trigger Warnings for eating disorders and mentions of self-harm. Stay safe <3
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Series: Now I've Got A Bellyache [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648597
Comments: 18
Kudos: 179





	Thought That I'd Feel Better

“You know, we don’t have to go if you aren’t feeling up to it.” 

Crowley raised his head to watch as Aziraphale prepped their suitcase for a few nights in Tadfield - a pointless exercise considering they could miracle any belongings that they could ever possibly need into existence at the flick of a hand, but Aziraphale had explained that it would look strange to Adam’s parents if they showed up with no luggage. Crowley then had to argue that they weren’t even staying with Adam and the rest of the Young family, that they had rented out their own cottage for the weekend, but the angel was having none of it. 

He scratched at his wrist under the sleeve of his jacket. His fingers couldn’t help but trace the deep scar there and Crowley felt a wave of calm wash over him. It had been a month since the disaster that had caused him to finally admit that he was struggling mentally, physically, emotionally. In _every_ way imaginable. Throughout that month, Crowley had slowly started to open up about things and, although he still wasn’t eating as much as he should, he had started to drink the hot chocolates that Aziraphale made for him in the evenings. 

Aziraphale still didn’t know about the scar on Crowley’s wrist. There were a lot of things that he still didn’t know and he could never really, fully, understand what had led to Crowley becoming what he was. Crowley had made a point of _not_ having another breakdown like he had had the last time again and only spoke of his mental state when the angel asked. The patterns that he had spent so long following - the refusal of food, the weighing, the bodychecking, the self hatred monologues that he conducted silently in his head - were so deep-rooted into Crowley’s brain that he doubted he would ever be free of them. But he was… He could recognise them now. 

_How was today?_ Aziraphale would ask him come dusk. _Not very good,_ Crowley would answer as he stared at a lopsided stack of dusty books. _Do you want to talk about it? No. That’s okay, then. Tomorrow will be better._

Crowley kept wanting to give better answers. He wanted to expand on why it wasn’t a good day, why he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. Every time he had been about to, though, his throat closed up and every bad thought in his head turned into a scream that drowned out everything else. He was working on it. 

Ish. 

“I’m fine,” Crowley responded curtly as he dropped his hand back down to his side. The weekend at Tadfield had been scheduled for months now - it was nearing the nine month anniversary of the Not-Quite-End-Of-Days and everyone who had been at the airbase that day liked to meet up monthly to discuss it, among other things. Aziraphale and Madame Tracey usually talked about Words with Friends, Anathema, Pepper and Crowley tended to talk about whatever took their fancy and everyone else would speak between themselves. Adam liked to drag Crowley into playing games with The Them. 

He didn’t want to miss it. The chaos of it all: having Anathema bake in the kitchen whilst trying to keep Shadwell away from the cake mix, The Them running around with Crowley in the living room of Jasmine Cottage, Madame Tracey and Aziraphale sitting at one of the coffee tables by the windows and talking about the weather with the angel occasionally turning to the demon and saying _‘Watch the flowers, my dear.’_ And he certainly didn’t want to miss it for something as trivial as his… mental wellbeing. 

Crowley clenched his jaw to resist the urge of pulling a face. The week, though thankfully it was coming to an end now, had been one of the harder ones since his breakdown. He had only managed to drink one and a half of the five hot chocolates that Aziraphale had made for him and he had spent more time in the upstairs of the bookshop than he had in the downstairs. Every time he had tried to walk down the stairs, his vision had turned white and he had heard a distant ringing in his ears. 

He had decided pretty early on in the week that it was easier to stay upstairs until he could stand up without getting light headed, which of course was a catalyst for another episode of his mind to call him every horrid thing under the sun. _Selfish, lazy, useless prick._

 _“We’re not doing that anymore,”_ Aziraphale had told him a few weeks ago. _“We’re going to learn coping skills.”_

Not much had come out of his attempts to learn coping skills. Crowley had to relax his grip on his mental walls first and focus on learning what it was, exactly, that he had to learn how to cope with. 

“If you’re sure. They would understand, though.” 

“It’s not about that,” Crowley straightened up from where he had been leaning against the wall. “They’re not to know about what happened.”

Aziraphale looked up at that. He did a good job at masking his shock but Crowley had learnt how to read his expressions after six thousand years. “You don’t want them to know?” 

If there was one thing that Crowley knew for certain about what had happened, it was that he didn’t want anyone knowing except from Aziraphale. And if it had been up to him then Aziraphale wouldn’t know either but the world had had different plans. He didn’t want the questions, the sympathy. He didn’t want the kids to look at him and think that it was cool to look like he did. And Shadwell… Would be a disaster in that situation. 

_Why you lookin’ so thin, laddie? Wha’s a matter with ya?_

No, no. It was much better if they didn’t know. Crowley had made excuses for not eating before and he could do it again. _Easy._ “No,” he was looking at the ground. “’S jus’… best they don’t.”

He could see that Aziraphale wanted to say something. Possibly to say that it was okay, nothing to be ashamed of. Crowley didn’t want to hear it. With a snap of his fingers, his suitcase was filled with things that he didn’t need and he muttered something that he wasn’t even sure what it was about as he turned and left the room.

* * *

“Oh, this is lovely!” Aziraphale beamed as he shut the Bentley’s door behind him. “Crowley, look!” 

Crowley shut his car door with his hip, and ignored the tinge of pain at the bone hitting metal, and looked up to see the cottage that they would be staying at for the weekend. It was a three minute drive to Jasmine Cottage, or a ten minute walk, and was just as quaint and country-esque. A white stone cottage with a low thatch roof, a wooden barn door with two flower baskets hanging either side of it. The windows were small and at different angles, the glass panes thick and covered in a thin layer of golden dust. It was sat on an overgrown garden that had a small gravel path cutting through it from the pavement outside of the cream gates to the front door. The path was lined with lavender. 

It was nice. Cosy. Crowley could picture him and the angel in the cottage’s living room with a glass of wine each, a roaring fire in the hearth. With a wave of a hand, their luggage was put away with their suitcases stored in the spare bedroom and the gate to the cottage swung open on lightly creaking hinges. “Yeah,” he said as he walked through. “Coming, angel?” 

He heard Aziraphale’s footsteps behind him. “Anathema was telling me that there’s a place down the road that serves the best wines. She asked if we wanted to join her with Newt and Madame Tracey and Sergeant Shadwell?” 

Crowley couldn’t help but snort. “It’s called a pub, angel.” 

“Ah, quite right.”

“And isn’t Shadwell retired?” Crowley pushed open the front door, his arm shook with the effort but he ignored it, and held it open for Aziraphale. He flicked the light switch on and the cottage downstairs was encased in an amber glow. 

“Possibly,” Aziraphale hummed. The door clicked shut behind him. 

Crowley flopped down on the sofa in the living room and propped his feet up on the edge of the coffee table before him. There was a worn blanket hanging off from the other arm of the sofa that he was desperate to cover himself in - despite the comforting heat of the cottage and the many layers that he wore, his skin was covered in goosebumps and every breath he took was a rush of cool air at the back of his throat. 

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale tutted as he walked into the living room. “You can’t put your dirty shoes on somebody else’s table!” 

“Why not?” Crowley looked up. He wrapped his arms around his torso. 

“Well, they could eat off of that table, for starters.” 

“Who’s they?” 

“The people who own the cottage.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale frowned at Crowley, a crease forming as his brows furrowed. Crowley had to look away and clench his arms harder around his ribcage to stop himself from thinking about how he wouldn’t look so sad, so worried, if it weren’t for him. “Are you feeling okay, my dear?” 

He had been told that they were renting the cottage. More times than once when Crowley had complained that they couldn’t stay at a hotel or even go back to the bookshop come nightfall. Crowley had forgotten. He was… forgetting a lot of things lately. _Don’t worry him. Don’t worry him anymore than you already are._ “I’m fine,” he said for the second time that day. “When are we going to the witch’s place?”

* * *

By the time they got to Jasmine Cottage that evening, Crowley was ready to fall down. Quite literally. 

The cold that had been set into his bones for so many years had turned into a vice. It had such a tight hold of him that Crowley thought his bones would snap as if they were nothing more than icicles. His heart felt fast in his chest and his head felt heavy and silent and he was shaking and all of the thoughts that he had been pushing back for the better half of the week were threatening to make themselves louder- 

On unsteady legs, Crowley had to lean against Aziraphale as they waited for the door to Jasmine Cottage to open. Twice since his breakdown, he had had to rely on Aziraphale to hold him upright. Crowley had fallen flat on his face one too many times in the weeks following him finally speaking out and after the third time, Aziraphale had said that enough was enough and that, if he ever felt like he would collapse, to rest on him. 

“Forgive me for asking this again,” Aziraphale asked so quietly that Crowley could hardly hear it over the roaring in his ears, “but are you-?”

“Don’t,” Crowley allowed his eyes to flutter shut briefly. He could spare a few seconds. “Don’t keep asking, please.” He didn’t know how to explain that every time the angel showed that he cared or that he was worried, he ended up hating himself that much more for making Aziraphale feel that way. He felt Aziraphale nod. 

The door opened and a cacophony of sounds fell out. The kettle whistling, the fire burning, The Them laughing and chatting, Madame Tracey and Newt telling Shadwell that that was enough sugar in his tea. Crowley jerked himself into an upright position fast enough that his vision swam and he blinked furiously, grateful for the sunglasses that would hide it. “You’re here!” Anathema explained. She dusted her hands off of flour on an already dirty apron. 

“Did you think we wouldn’t be?” Crowley raised a brow. “Nice apron,” he nodded his head to the red apron that Anathema wore that had _DON’T KISS THE CHEF I’M SOCIALLY AWKWARD_ written in thick white letters. 

“It’s Newt’s,” she said dryly. “He shrunk mine in the wash. It’s so small that it won’t even fit Dog - yes, we tried - and god knows how he managed that. It’s great to see you guys.” 

“You as well,” Aziraphale smiled politely. 

“Anyway, come in,” she opened the door wider and started to walk back into the warmth of the cottage. Crowley and Aziraphale followed. 

In the living room, the sofa had been pushed up against one wall with all of its cushions dropped on the floor. Two armchairs and three dining room chairs were placed in a small semi-circle in the middle of the room, two of which were being occupied by Shadwell and Madame Tracey, and Newt and The Them were sat in front of them except for Adam, who was laying down on the sofa with dog asleep on his stomach. Three wine glasses were placed by the feet of the chairs as well as two small bowls of crisps-

Crowley’s eyes caught them and his breathing itched. Aziraphale cast him a worried glance over his shoulder and Crowley ignored him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned one hip against the door frame. The smell of the crisps alone, ready salted and paprika, was enough to make his stomach flip. Crowley forced himself to stop breathing. He didn’t need to do it anyways and he was sure that nobody would question the stillness of his chest and shoulders; there was good reason for it.

He didn’t want the kids to… _See._

“Crowley!” Adam exclaimed. He picked Dog up and placed him gently on the floor before running at full speed to the demon in the doorway and pulling him into a hug. He was only eleven but Adam was already up to Crowley’s waist and was strong enough that he had to brace an arm against the door frame so the two of them wouldn’t fall to the ground. _Possibly because he’s the Son of Satan still, in case you forgot._ “Hi, Aziraphale.” Adam looked up to the angel from where he was still hugging Crowley. 

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale nodded. He turned to Madame Tracey; “And may I just say that you’re use of the word _iridescent_ in Words with Friends the other day was quite marvellous. You had me beaten on that round.”

Madame Tracey laughed and raised her wine glass to her bright pink lips. “See, they were talking about it at my nail salon and it was the perfect opportunity-”

“Are you alright?” Adam loosened his grip on Crowley and took a step back from him. “You feel like one of Pepper’s dolls.”

Pepper looked up sharply. “It’s not a doll, Adam, it’s a- Actually, it _is_ a doll but it’s something my mum uses on her patients. It isn’t mine.”

“Then why are they in your room?” Brian asked.

“There’s nowhere to _store_ them-”

Crowley was grateful for his decisions to stop himself from breathing because, if he hadn’t, he was undoubtedly certain that he would be experiencing the beginnings of a panic attack. He could feel the anxiety thrum through his veins like small electric shocks even though his heart was still, silent and heavy. _Look at what you’ve done now. You’re going to fuck these kids up. They shouldn’t have to worry about you. They shouldn’t have to know these things, experience these things._

_They would have been better off without you in their lives._

His throat felt tight. Crowley cleared it and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He wanted to trace that scar on his wrist and make blood run down his palm and drop off of his fingers and claws. He couldn’t do that to the kids. To Anathema and Newt, to Madame Tracey and Shadwell - who all, despite their age, were still kids to Crowley. _Get a fucking grip or you’re going to do something that there will be no coming back from. Just like when you broke down in front of Aziraphale._

_Do you really want to tear your hands apart and leave skin, muscle, veins and tissue flapping uselessly by the bone again? In front of them all?_

Crowley forced himself to laugh and grin. “Nah, no. ‘S fine. All good. Uh, yeah.” _Idiot._

From where he was sitting on the ground with the rest of The Them, Newt looked to Anathema and frowned. “Is that my apron? Have you been wearing that all night?” 

Crowley had never been more grateful for Newt and his lack of social cues. Relief washed over him with so much force that his legs threatened to collapse from underneath him. Anathema clapped her hands in front of her and smiled brightly, ignoring Newt; “Drinks, anyone?”

* * *

“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” Anathema came up from behind Aziraphale and placed a hand on his elbow. “But Adam is right. Something is up with Crowley. Do you know what it is? Because if you do then that’s okay and I trust you to deal with it but if you don’t then… I’m worried about him.”

Aziraphale looked through the serving hatch in the kitchen. It opened out to the living room where Crowley was sat in one of the armchairs, his elbow propped up on the arm and his head resting heavily in it. Adam and Pepper were behind him, either playing a game or talking to Crowley or trying to persuade him into letting them braid his hair again, but the demon looked as if he was about to fall asleep. 

“He’s-” Aziraphale drifted off. Crowley hadn’t wanted anyone to know but, if he didn’t tell Anathema, then she would confront Crowley in person. He had know the witch long enough. “I know what it is,” he said quietly so Crowley wouldn’t hear it.

Anathema joined him at the hatch. Her breath was hot on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “Is it serious?” 

Aziraphale looked at his demon. He saw the pale skin with a grey and yellow tinge to it, the baggy clothes that were supposed to be skintight. He saw the trembling hands and prominent veins, the collarbones and hipbones and ribcage that could be seen through his clothes. His nails had lengthened into elegant black claws, his eyes were bright from behind his dark sunglasses and the serpentine yellow had completely overtaken his sclera. When Crowley shifted in his seat, Aziraphale saw small, shining black scales on the back of his neck reflect in the dim light and he could have sworn that his teeth had sharpened into fangs-

He was losing control over his cooperation. 

Aziraphale bit back a curse. He had known - of course he had known! - that Crowley had been lying when he had said that he was fine. That he felt fine enough to go to Tadfield for the weekend. He had been close to falling unconscious when he tried to walk down the bookshop’s stairs, he had barely had two tiny cups of hot chocolate all week. He had known that Crowley wasn’t as okay as he was making out to be, he just hadn’t wanted to believe it. 

His demon wasn’t okay. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale turned around to face Anathema. “I’m so sorry, dear, but can we take a rain check on tonight? We’re here until Sunday night and I just remembered that there’s something that Crowley and I forgot to do earlier.” 

Anathema looked to the oven and the timer that was sat on the edge of the counter top. “I just put in a pasta dish.” 

Aziraphale winced and hoped that Crowley hadn’t heard. It seemed that he reacted as violently to the thought or the idea of food as he did to actually eating it. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s lovely as ever, we just really need to-”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “I’m kidding. Go, go and do whatever it is that you need to do. We’ll all still be here tomorrow - sleepover arranged, I don’t know how it happened. But, please? Make sure he’s alright.”

The angel looked to the demon in the other room, whose breathing had become so shallow that Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was even breathing at all. “That’s the plan.”

And with a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale and Crowley disappeared from Jasmine Cottage and were stood in the middle of the living room in the cottage that they were renting. 

“Ugh,” Crowley shook his head. He widened his eyes from behind his sunglasses. “Angel, what?” 

Aziraphale guided Crowley onto the sofa gently and picked up the blanket that was resting by the side of it. “You don’t ever have to pretend with me, Crowley,” he placed the blanket over the demon’s shaking, slightly shivering form. “Especially about this.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley mumbled as he turned to face Aziraphale. “I thought I could do it and I couldn’t and I can’t and I won’t _ever_ be able to-”

“That’s alright,” Aziraphale dimmed the lights and knelt down on the ground beside him. “I’m not asking you to be okay. I just want you to try.”

“Same thing,” he waved a hand.

 _“Very_ different things,” Aziraphale corrected. “As long as you’re okay in the end, I don’t care how we get there.”

It was silent for a moment. Two. Aziraphale thought Crowley must’ve fallen asleep and so he rose from his position on the floor. “Thanks, angel,” he heard him say so softly, so quietly. Aziraphale’s heart constricted and he smiled. 

They had a long road ahead of them. Undoing all of the pain and torment that Crowley had dealt with for the last six thousand years. It could possibly take six thousand more to make him… To make him feel like himself again. 

But Aziraphale had sworn to himself that he would see his love happy again - properly happy. And they had all the time in the world to see to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as: the writer had a lot of feelings and is projecting MASSIVELY onto Crowley, whoops. 
> 
> I hoped you liked this one shot thing! I have plans to write a long fic for Aziraphale helping Crowley recover fully from all of this but that might take me some time to write because, although I love all of you and love this story, it is slightly triggering for me. 
> 
> I'm also worried that everyone is incredibly OOC, uh... Yeah. It's really hard to keep track of this many characters. Sorry!
> 
> Love you all,  
> Xoxo.
> 
> P.S. Every title in this series is a lyric taken from Where's My Mind? by Billie Eilish


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